


Kill Gil

by SnarkySharke



Series: Fate Drabbles [5]
Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/stay night - All Media Types
Genre: (And also Achilles 'cause he's my boi), Archer!Gilgamesh is still an asshole, Can you believe this was written because of a prompt for goth lesbians?, Casually reminding everyone about some of my favorite underrated Servants, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:08:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26965681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnarkySharke/pseuds/SnarkySharke
Summary: The program was impeccable; one of Da Vinci’s best. It had taken command team months to perfect the simulation.The name of the game was simple: beat Gilgamesh.The results of an idle thought experiment on what Servants could have a good chance to do so, besides the ones that are already presented in the anime. Plus a little extra, because you can't keep me away from the Pendragons for long.
Relationships: (all background at best), Emiya Shirou/Artoria Pendragon | Saber, Gilgamesh | Caster & Nero | Saber, Heroic Spirit Emiya | Archer/Artoria Pendragon Alter | Saber, Jeanne d'Arc Alter | Avenger/Artoria Pendragon Alter | Saber
Series: Fate Drabbles [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597582
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	1. Cry Havoc (Cu Chulainn)

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to share what I've been working on during quarantine, but it's still not done. Soon, hopefully. Here's this instead, which has really been done for quite a while. I've been waiting on a few extra chapters from a friend of mine, but I feel like I need to share something and look productive. The extra chapters will be added at a later date.

The name of the game was simple: beat Gilgamesh. 

The program was impeccable; one of Da Vinci’s best -- with, of course, generous input from the King of Heroes himself. Although he regretted it, the reality, he said, was that he simply couldn’t participate personally; if it was going to be a real test, then both sides needed to be able to go all-out without real lethality. It had taken command team months to perfect the simulated Gilgamesh to the real hero’s standards.

Nero added it to her latest festival. Schedules were drawn. Betting pools quickly formed. And of course, to kick off the exhibition, it was--

“ _Yo,_ ” the Hound of Chulainn flipped a casual salute. “Ready to finally see how this turns out when I can really go all-out?”

The simulation King of Heroes scoffed. “How impertinent. Die now for your arrogance.”

“Now that’s a good joke,” Cu smirked, still leaning nonchalantly on his spear as the arena filled with portals to the King’s vaults.

Gilgamesh flicked his hand, and from behind him shot out a hundred weapons of myth, precursors of Noble Phantasms from every land and age, each one enough to destroy lesser Servants--

And Ireland’s Child of Light moved even before they did, weaving between them in sequence, twirling his spear about his body as he went. A flash of scarlet as his eyes caught a halberd coming from an odd angle -- and a snarl of feral enjoyment as he spun, batting it aside with his spear with all the force expected of a clash between two demigods.

“Projectiles aren’t going to be much good against me, Mr. King,” he said as the volley ceased and he came to a stop in the sand, taking his time dropping into a combat stance. “You’d be better off facing me fair and square.”

“Impossible.” Gilgamesh cocked his head and raised his hand again, and more golden portals appeared in the air. “A King would never stoop to such a level as to personally face a mongrel like you. I can sense your divinity. It reeks. So perhaps try this, instead. Enkidu!”

Chains tipped with spears lashed out toward Cu Chulainn. “Ah, here’s where it really starts!” he grinned, leaping away from the chains and knocking one away with his spear-tip. “My turn -- _Gae -- Bolg!_ ”

Even as more chains reached out for him from new portals, the Hound’s spear of bone ignited in crimson energy, and he threw it with all the precision of a hero born to the spear. 

Gilgamesh shouted a haughty denial and summoned a fine shield in front of him, then weathered the blowback as the spear punched into the strip of metal and Mystery with an explosion of force.

The First Hero, the original owner of all Noble Phantasms, of course knew the capabilities of the Gae Bolg, the cursed Spear of Thorns. Thrown, it was a dangerous anti-army missile, but nothing his armory could not stand. The true danger would be--

“Gae Bolg!” the Lancer barked again.

This time the King summoned a hundred shields within a cage of a thousand blades and pushed himself back with reflexes only an Archer could muster. His only defense would be a complete and total one -- but he was too slow. The spear juked and curved in between the ever-narrowing gaps as his defenses came together, cutting a jagged scar through the air until it met his chest.

Pain lanced into his shoulder as Gilgamesh was lifted and thrown by the force of the blow, and he could hear the arrogant Lancer clucking his tongue as he pulled himself to his feet once again.

“Ah, what’s with you Kings and your high luck?” Cu moaned. “A cursed spear’s not too much use when the curse won’t take. Still…”

Gilgamesh refused to clutch at his wound as it healed -- only partially, likely due to that curse. “Fool," he spat. "No trinket's curse from some backwater whelp could impinge on the majesty of the King of Uruk. Now… name yourself properly before I have you executed for your poor manners, dog!”

“Got it in one,” the Lancer smirked. He dropped his spear, balanced it on the ridge of his metal-clad boot, kicked it up again and spun it behind his back. “Cu Chulainn, hero of Ulster. Now… do you want to rethink that whole _fair and square_ thing? Really I’m pretty well respected for my honorable duels.”

“You will never deserve my respect, for you were not born with it,” Gilgamesh sneered. More Gates of Babylon rose behind him, rows and rows of them, a hundredfold what he had unleashed so far. “Not even your greatest weapon can marr my magnificence. Do you have any last words, _dog_?”

“Mmm,” the Irish hero scratched the back of his head. “Too bad. You would’a had more of a chance in a fair fight. But that’s alright -- I’m known for my defense, but I’m really more of an _overwhelming offense_ kinda guy. And even if the curse is weakened… do you know what’s great about a nice, simple Noble Phantasm like my wee spear here?”

The hero grinned again, wolfish, all teeth and murderous intent, and his spear flamed with energy. “Gae -- Bolg!”

“It’s over.”

“Huh? I thought you were always rooting for the kings.”

"That Lancer is a king in his own right. Only the third of three spears, each enchanted to slay a king, could end him in life. Once more Gilgamesh is about to be taught the folly of holding back.”

“Where are you going? Salter?”

It was really a terrible name, but in the end she didn’t mind. It made the Saber Alter her more distinguishable from the other dozen Artoria Pendragons who now dwelled in Chaldea. And the one Arthur. Not to mention the “Mysterious Heroines.” It was getting crowded.

“I’m going to the bathroom. Kill anyone who tries to take my seat.”

Jeanne d'Arc Alter -- Jalter -- groaned and slumped down into her chair as her companion left the arena.

It was already over. Cu Chulainn’s greatest strength, if he didn’t have to worry about orders or long-term strategy or too many other opponents, was the sheer efficiency of his Gae Bolg. When unleashed as a thrusting attack, it was unblockable, undodgeable, an instant kill -- normally -- and it only used a bare fraction of the energy required to power up Salter’s Excalibur Morgan or Jalter’s own flames or flag.

So he used it. Repeatedly.

Dodging between the Chains of Heaven, every time he found solid footing he unleashed the spear’s true name again, and in an instant scored another grievous wound against the King and traversed whatever ground he had managed to put between them. Even with its heart-seeking curse of thorns nullified by Gilgamesh’s high luck, death was imminent. And it came for the King of Heroes.

“How boring,” Jalter muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to go off about how cool Cu really is and how he's never given a fair showing in the animes due to background shenanigans and poor Command Seal decisions, but that's what this whooole work is for.


	2. Kill it with Fire (the Round Table)

“I thought Billy was next?” Salter said through a mouthful of corn dog.

“Can’t you go _five seconds_ without food?” Jalter sneered.

“Shut up,” the other said, handing her a second corn dog without looking.

“Ugh,” Jalter rolled her eyes, but accepted the snack and started munching immediately.

“Billy,” Salter repeated.

“Already won,” Jalter shrugged.

“What?”

“ _Mmm,_ ” Jalter shrugged again, recrossing her legs. “His Noble Phantasm killed Gil in the first minute.”

“His revolver? Such a simple Noble Phantasm was able to best Gilgamesh’s entire trove?”

“Technically it’s just the bullet, and the fact it was fired by Billy the Kid,” Jalter corrected through a full mouth. “It’s more like a skill than a proper Noble Phantasm. No Mystery involved. Like that nameless samurai. Gilgamesh gave his little speech, and then Billy just… _bang._ ” She closed one eye and mimicked a pistol with her fingers. “Right off the bat.”

“He always fires first, and true,” Salter muttered, then smiled. “ _Hmph._ I knew guns were a viable approach to war. He should be commended for his boldness, to approach the King of Heroes with such a straightforward tactic.”

“You sound like you like the guy,” Jalter accused, flicking her cleaned corn dog stick at her companion as she took her seat next to her.

“I like him as much as I like kale,” she said. “That is to say, still more than _you._ ” She threw her own stick. “But all kings who have not crumbled under the weight of their own crown deserve some measure of respect, and more importantly, strong opponents should never be underestimated.”

Salter’s projectile sparked and burned to smoke between Jalter’s thumb and forefinger. “Your boy’s faltering.”

On the arena floor below them, Lancelot du Lac stood against King Gilgamesh. The Knight of the Lake had a well-known advantage against the King of Heroes: his eternal mastery of arms embodied the concept that knights do not die empty-handed. Every weapon thrown at Lancelot became his Noble Phantasm if he only touched them. Gilgamesh risked every ancient treasure he used being turned back against him, and unlike the king, Lancelot was a frontline fighter, at home in the chaos of war and more than fast enough to keep pace with any threat.

But the king lauded as the wisest in all myth was no fool, nor was he without skill himself. When Lancelot weaved between his first volley of treasures like water, snatching a longsword from the air and throwing it back at him, the King was able to block, and reevaluate. He had, he supposed, two options. 

“You come from noble stock, and yet--” the Gates of Babylon opened wide behind Gilgamesh, bathing the arena in golden glow. “How many of my treasures can you handle, thief? Kuhahahaa!”

Gates continued opening, spreading out around the arena to completely encircle it, and began launching more weapons. Lancelot’s sapphire cape was thrown aside and torn to tatters by a dozen Noble Phantasms; the thorn-tipped cords peculiar to his Gallic plate armor streamed behind him as he moved, dodging clear of some attacks while parrying others away with Aerondight in one hand, while catching and redirecting yet more with his off hand, a dynamo of motion in the King’s storm.

Gilgamesh met each returned weapon with summoned shields and crossed pikes. It was as if he had summoned the phantoms of the royal guards he must have had in life -- who must have been equally proud and ashamed to know they were hardly needed. 

Each Noble Phantasm was dangerous, but in a limited capacity. Gilgamesh was rightful owner of them all, but he was the master of none. He eschewed drawing on any one weapon’s true powers; they were so many in number and so pallid compared to Ea that each one was hardly more than a trinket to him. Even in the rare event he deigned to, he could still not match in skill the heroes who would come to possess the weapons after his time and master them.

Lancelot, meanwhile, was a master of any weapon he touched, but never their rightful owner. He could snatch Gae Bolg from the air, but he would not know how to unleash its most powerful curse; he would know naught of it but that it was a fine spear, and he would use it expertly as such, but ultimately as a spear alone. As long as Gilgamesh was careful as to what he threw at the knight…

And then there was sheer volume. Using so many treasures on one lowly knight was a shame, but what did it mean to be king of all but to take every action to excess? When his initial volley did not suffice, why not multiply it a hundredfold? When the knight-prince continued to demonstrate his skill and tenacity, why not let him prove it again and again against even greater challenges?

Swords glanced off his plate armor. Halberds severed the cords dancing behind his back. Spears met his blade. Shining white and gold became scarred by keen edges and crackling energy. And golden shields quivered and cracked under an onslaught returned.

“If only you had more time,” Gilgamesh mused. 

Another Gate. Another projectile. A dozen from every angle. Lancelot sidestepped, ducked, parried, caught one on his gauntlet and gripped it in his hand--

And the weapon, a chain, resisted. Stalled his momentum. Another chain fastened around a plate boot that should have already moved. 

“A good show,” the King mused. “But even a thief born of a king cannot match the true King of Kings. The Chains of Heaven, you see, are no mere weapon for you to harness. Rather you could call them a good friend of mine… and while you may be admirably mortal, a strong chain is still a chain.”

“Shame,” Jalter shrugged again, smirking. “Looks like your little pond knight isn’t all he’s cracked up to be.”

Lancelot was moodier than ever as he trudged back into the stands. 

“Well, ya tried,” Mordred said, rather heartlessly. Only Lance himself would have known she meant it sincerely and couldn't come up with anything better if she'd tried, but he was only half-listening.

“Sir Mordred!” Gawain snapped. “Take heart, Sir Lancelot, you fought well. You nearly had him, and with only your sheer skill at arms! Besides -- we shall all endeavor to best him in your name. In the name of our King!”

“ _Guh,_ ” Mordred scoffed. “Can’t we do _anything_ without bringing Father into it?”

“Hush. You’ll still fight to prove the worth of King Arthur’s knights, and you know it. So who next? Sir Tristan? Sir Tristan...?”

“ _Oi!_ ”

“Ah!”

“Mordred!”

“He was sleeping! _Again._ ”

“Ah, no, I was simply reflecting…”

“He was sleeping,” Lancelot quietly confirmed with Mordred. She smirked.

“Very well,” Gawain hooked his thumbs into his belt. “I shall go next.”

“Good luck,” Lancelot bid.

“Don’t screw it up,” Mordred added. “If you make me go out there I’m gonna make you regret it in training.”

Despite her gruffness, Gawain smiled back warmly. “Thank you, sis.”

Gawain was becoming quite proficient at making his new little sister blush.

Brushing off his fur-lined cloak, Gawain entered the arena and drew Galatine, sparking pale blue over the sands. Gilgamesh looked down on him, appraising first the weapon, then the man. 

What followed was anything but elegant.

“I am Sir Gawain of Orkney and of the Round Table, known as the Hawk of May, and the Knight of the Sun,” he introduced himself with full pomp. 

“You have manners,” Gilgamesh observed with the hint of a smile. “Good. Then know that I am Gilgamesh, King of mighty Uruk, known as the Wedge of Heaven, the oldest and wisest hero, to whom all things in this world rightfully belong. Do you still have the courage to challenge me?”

“No Knight may back down from a gauntlet, once thrown.”

“Well-spoken. Then fight for your life! Prove to me the worth of the western sun!”

Nobody in Chaldea underestimated Gawain. Those who had witnessed his spirit origin as it had been called upon in the Camelot singularity remembered it forever. He did not tower as high as Lancelot or Emiya, but he was easily as broad, with the might of three normal knights of his caliber, and belying his appearance he was just as quick as Lancelot, Mordred, or their King herself. Under noon’s light, he was unstoppable, but sheltered inside the arena he was still a force to be reckoned with.

It put things in perspective when the King of Heroes rained Noble Phantasms down upon him.

Gawain twisted and ducked with agility and poise reminiscent of Li Shuwen. He didn’t just parry, but _threw_ weapons aside with broad sweeps of Galatine in one hand, nothing but his gauntlet in his other. 

And it meant nothing. An axe cleaved across his spaulder. A spear sheared through the edge of his cuirass. A dagger stuck into his cuisse, and blood seeped into his trousers. The torrential hail of Noble Phantasms was overwhelming for anyone who didn’t have a perfect counter -- even a knight as powerful as Gawain. 

“Is this all you offer me, little bird?” Gilgamesh jeered with only disgust in his voice. 

_It isn’t._ Gawain lifted himself up by the hilt of his sword. _It can’t be._

He had endured far worse. Betrayal, loss, tragedy death and endless guilt. He had given his head for his king. He had given his life for his country. He had fought on against Mordred’s armies even while his wounds from Lancelot wept onto the soil of Camlann. He had fought on the verge of death in the hellish SERAPH pseudo-singularity. In a hundred other timelines, in a hundred other wars, he was sure he fought until the last ounce of blood dripped from his fading heart. 

“Is this truly the extent of the light of your sun?” Gilgamesh muttered, drawing forth an axe into his hands.

And he had killed, mercilessly. For a cause he believed in he would slaughter hundreds. He _had._ He could feel it, etched onto his soul: a tide of blood wrapped in golden spirals. Another sin he would bear until the day he finally rested. But that wasn’t today; it couldn’t be. He had fought against worse. He had _done_ worse. It burned inside him. It burned with the heat of an undying sun at the end of the world.

“ _This sword conducts the sun’s radiance,_ ” he rasped, digging his fingers into the ground and dismissing his heavy cuirass, conserving the magical energy.

As the knight began to shake and rise, the ghost of an amused smile began to return to Gilgamesh’s lips. “What was that, mongrel?”

“This heart is a reflection of the sun’s flames!” Gawain barked, blood leaving his mouth with the words. He wrenched Galatine from the dirt.

“Good,” Gilgamesh chuckled. The glow of the Gates of Babylon grew behind him. “Die with some dignity.”

“ _I -- am -- nightless!_ ” The cry tore from his throat as Galatine sailed upward. It glowed brilliant blue, and in its place in the air was left raw heat and energy, a phantasmal star. The Knight of the Sun caught his greatsword expertly in one hand and drew it back under his other arm. All hint of unsteadiness was gone from him. “And I shall burn away the impure!”

The moment Gilgamesh dropped his hand and launched his volley of weapons, Gawain swept the sword outward, and a wall of fire met the wave of projectiles and reduced them to cinders in the wind. The arena lit from below with flames, and the golden glow was overcome by red-orange.

“Impudent and foolish!” the King of Uruk shouted, floating above the flames and summoning forth another tide of destruction upon the now-unarmored knight.

But Gawain moved now as if the light of midday was at his back. Every hard line of his muscled physique seemed edged with the light of a bloody dawn. Every movement was three times thrice the abilities of a normal Servant. He bounded across the arena at incredible speed, simply outrunning the first of the King’s attacks. When they adjusted, he blocked blow after blow with the flat of his blade, metal sparking on metal. Fire flashed in his eyes, and they never left the King of Heroes.

He had crossed the distance far faster than Gilgamesh could have expected of the brute. He threw yet more treasures at the charging warrior, slowing him as he reached for Ea--

But Gawain did not slow. He threw himself into the air, drawing Galatine back, shining like the sun, and even as the weapons collided with his body and tore his gambeson they could not pierce him; swords slashed his ribs and careened off-course, spears smashed and bruised his chest but fell away, and Gawain roared.

“ _Excalibur -- Galatine!_ ”

A wave of fire flowed out from his sword as he brought it down overhead, engulfing the two fighters and blinding the audience.

“ _That_ is how my knights conduct themselves,” Salter smirked.

“Not bad,” Jalter admitted, chewing idly on her pinky. “I like the flames.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billy really deserves his own chapter, he's awesome, but I just can't think of anything better than Thunderer instantly winning it for him, and as cool as it would be to _see_ , I don't want to put up such a short work.
> 
> Tristan also deserves a little more attention -- I actually like him -- but that's something to think on later.


	3. The Best Offense (Leonidas)

“ _Kuhahaha!_ An excellent show, Lancer. I can see how you held off such an impressive army. But how long do you think you can hold against me?”

“How’s it going?”

“It’s not exactly Luminosite Eternelle. Did you really need _more_ food?”

“Quiet, peasant. You wouldn’t understand the needs of a royal stomach.”

“I _understand_ you’re a slob.”

“I understand you will soon lose your head should you speak to me that way again.”

“ _Try me,_ ice queen.”

“I need not hold you back indefinitely,” came the growl from back in the arena, where King Leonidas stood proudly, crimson mantle streaming behind him, as the ghostly apparitions of 300 overlapping shields protected him from the onslaught of Gilgamesh’s Gates of Babylon. “Just as before, I need only hold you back long enough.”

“Ohh?” the King of Heroes smiled. “Then let us see how long you can hold.”

After Leonidas deployed his Enomotia Thermpylae, Gilgamesh had slowed his assault when he saw the phantasmal shields begin blocking his Noble Phantasms, even if each defense cost the King of Sparta. He was impressed that such a lowly Servant, with underwhelming stats and only fleeting divinity, could stand up to him. Now, he increased the rate of his vollies again, pressing Leonidas in as his shields shattered and his total line of defense closed the gaps around him.

Shields splintered and faded under the assault of ancient weapons. Compared to their majesty and Mystery, his defenses were nothing; pale phantasms of simple bronze. Their strength was their unity; 300 shields as one, protecting an entire army from any attack. Of course, the treasury of the King of Heroes was a different nature of attack altogether.

But the King of Sparta was a fierce tactician. Gilgamesh did not stagger his weapons as a constant rain, nor usually use them from all angles to surround and overwhelm. He used them as frontal wave after wave, as much or perhaps even more intimidation than tactic. An ancient and outdated approach to warfare, and a waste of such a versatile and dangerous weapon.

But an opportunity Leonidas was more than ready to seize. 

The moment the last of the wave of weapons crashed against his shields, he ended the rest, transforming their magical energy and launching a hundred javelins of light at the enemy, staggering the angle and launch time just so, such that they would come down as a consistent onslaught. The King of Heroes was stuck between two modes of defense: he already had his weapons ready, but he was not ready to use them to counter the javelins. He launched them anyway without aim, splashing them against the incoming attacks and thinning, but far from completely countering, the rain of projectiles. Still, the oldest hero had nigh-infinite resources and a warrior’s reflexes if not their trained instincts, and mustered his own wall of defenses as the javelins reached him.

And as they did, so did Leonidas.

“ _Huuughaaaagh!_ ” the Spartan King let out a war cry, lunging forward with his spear--

And as Gilgamesh stepped backward from the tip of the spear, a dozen gleaming chains surrounded Leonidas and wrapped his limbs in unbreakable bonds. 

“A valiant effort, Spartan King,” Gilgamesh admitted. “You are worthy of your reputation as the greatest defender among Servants.”

Even with his immaculate insight, he could still be surprised by a devious mind. Those were the challenges he craved, and the minds he would have trusted.

“The battle is not yet over, King of Babylon!” Leonidas growled, struggling fiercely but ultimately in vain.

“Those chains are the Chains of Heaven, Enkidu,” Gilgamesh explained. “They would hold a mortal man faster than any mortal chain, but a being of divinity they bind all the tighter. Though you hold little of that stain, you cannot escape.”

Still, the Spartan flexed against the chains with all his might.

“Expected of the great Leonidas,” Gilgamesh continued, “Struggle with all your strength until the very end. I feel a kinship with you, warrior king. I will grant you an honorable death. Behold, the sword of rupture…”

A whirlpool of light and wind opened beneath their feet, and Ea rose to meet his waiting grasp. The winds died, and but for the faint creaks of the chains and Leonidas’ breaths, the arena fell silent.

His breastplate and helm vanished into particulate, even his shield. The energy to maintain them was too much. 

“Rejoice, Leonidas,” King Gilgamesh bid. “I honor you.”

Calm enveloped the Spartan King. To run hot and be consumed by adrenaline in the midst of battle was the Spartan way, the heritage of Heracles, and a rare pleasure of war even for the calculating king, but it was the calm that overtook him that allowed him to think, to direct, to be the legendary hero of the Hot Gates, to stand and hold where others would surely fall. 

But even in the calm before death, there was something Gilgamesh did not seem to understand -- what it meant to be a Spartan. That every Spartan, from the youngest child to the oldest counselors, from the humblest servant to the highest of kings, was first and foremost, always, a warrior.

The energy to maintain his armor and shield was too much. He needed every bit of his energy elsewhere, _now._

“ _I’m not done yet!_ ” Leonidas cried into the face of the enemy. He roared, like a mad Titan, at a volume to burn away his throat, with an effort no words could express, and heaved with all the might of Heracles.

And the Chains of Heaven snapped.

“Impossible!” Gilgamesh bit out, throwing himself backwards and already spinning up Ea, sending out a whirlwind of force.

And with a deafening crack the air split with the force of a spear thrown like an artillery strike, and Gilgamesh coughed blood.

Salter blinked. “What?”

“Ha!” Jalter barked. 

“I thought those chains were unbreakable by those with divinity,” Salter said.

“The strength of their grip increases with the divinity of the captive,” Jalter corrected, “So normally, if they catch you, there’s no helping it. But Leonidas’ divinity is so low it's practically undetectable -- and he has Rear Guard’s Pride.”

 _Ah._ The unique skill, the legacy of Thermopylae, that had made him such a formidable enemy during the Septem Singularity; one that strengthens him further the more he is disadvantaged. But to imagine it allowing him to break the Chains of Heaven…

“Nerd,” she said instead.

“I taught myself to read French, Japanese, and German in a year!” Jalter snapped immediately, “How long did it take your dick wizard to teach you English after you were crowned, you brainless farm girl!?”

Leonidas rose to his feet slowly, feeling the aches and strain of breaking his chains. His flesh was crisscrossed with deep marks, throbbing from having their blood flow constricted for so long. He forced himself to move to the form of Gilgamesh, just starting to fade.

"Most… impressive… Lancer,” he breathed.

“Had you been an instant faster...” Leonidas admitted, “Had I not accurately guessed your retreat and maintained the perfect form for my throw… I would have fallen.”

“That is why you are a Hero,” the dying Archer mused. “Save your flattery.”

“I have fought self-proclaimed god-kings before.” Leonidas kneeled. “But in another time, another Leonidas served another Gilgamesh as a trusted general. Yours is not tragic arrogance. You are simply young. And in time, you will be a great king.”

And Leonidas bowed his head -- a gesture his pride as a Spartan forbid him from offering to any foreign king; a gesture he reserved for gods, oracles, and most important of all, dear comrades.

The other king smiled, and the simulation flickered and ended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm fond of the gimmick of Servants shrugging off their armor plating for a desperate last blow. So sue me.
> 
> Also, nobody remind Jalter that it's probably easier to learn languages when you've got the Throne making everything intelligible for you anyway. Seriously though, her solution to carving out an identity for herself separate from vanilla Jeanne d'Arc is to be a _huge_ fucking nerd, I love it.
> 
> Longer chapters coming soon, I swear.


	4. Sound and Thunder (Achilles)

"Who is next?" the King of Heroes asked, summoning a tablet into his hand -- a digital one; far more convenient than the clay of his time.

"Looks like the one you've been waiting for," Da Vinci chimed from behind her own datapad.

"Achilles," Enkidu said.

"The great Greek hero," Gilgamesh muttered, looking out over the field and once again sinking into thought on the matter. "Widely considered second only to Heracles -- if indeed second to anyone."

"You really don't know how you would fare?" Da Vinci asked.

"It is difficult to say, realistically," Gilgamesh admitted. "I have stood against gods and monsters, but that man, too, has toppled great heroes and armies and threatened the weave of fate itself in his wrath. He is undoubtedly a hero not to be underestimated."

"You've grown so different from when I knew you," Enkidu remarked. "The King Gilgamesh who faced me upon my birth would have never admitted to caution, even if he enacted it.”

Gilgamesh’s eyes narrowed. “That man was a fool, vain and prideful, who abandoned his responsibilities and let his kingdom decline in order to chase a child’s dream.”

“Unlike you, who managed to die of responsibility?” Da Vinci teased.

Touchy subject. “Were this program to be based on _this incarnation of myself,_ ” Gilgamesh bellowed, “My wisdom and caution would create a completely unwinnable scenario for the heroes of Chaldea!”

Da Vinci lowered her voice and leaned closer to Enkidu. “Yes, he’s _quite_ different.”

“Today is the day, Archer!” Achilles called out across the sand. “Now is the time for us to cross blades to our hearts’ content!”

“Quite presumptuous that I would wish to do such a thing.” Gilgamesh met his wild grin with a cold stare. Then… “And yet -- I recognize you for what you are. You wish to test yourself against the King of Heroes?”

The grin didn’t completely vacate his face, but the Greek assumed a respectful stance, as if a passive salute. “I am Achilles, son of the hero Peleus. I recognize no kings over my destiny but the gods of Olympus,” he claimed. “But I would challenge you, as a fellow hero.”

Gilgamesh inclined his head, studied the demigod before him. “I am Gilgamesh, son of Lugalbanda, King of Uruk and all Mesopotamia. And I accept your challenge. I will teach you to bow before the King of Kings.” 

“Now…” The Gates of Babylon opened. A wall of gold at his back. “Let us relive a legend worthy of our strength!”

The air split. Sand exploded upward in great plumes as a hellfire of weapons pummeled the earth. It fused and turned to shards of glass in mid-air as green lightning flashed. The spectators of the match were blinded and deafened by the combined thunderclap -- and beyond that, the sound of Achilles laughing madly.

“Faster, King, faster! Or you’ll never keep up!”

It was untraceable even by the swiftest eyes. Shock etched into the face of the King of Heroes as red iris met amber. Golden gates opened all around them, but a green flash struck first, putting Achilles’ armored boot into Gilgamesh’s breastplate.

But even as the shockwave rippled through the air, Gilgamesh latched onto the Greek hero’s leg with all his might. “Do not underestimate the King of All!” he spat. 

Both men were thrown to the ground and became a flurry of flying fists, tumbling over one another in the dust. 

“That’s more like it!” Achilles shouted. “Hold nothing back!”

Achilles’ blows pummeled the air like a rapid-fire machine gun, beating upon the other demigod’s arms and armor as he protected his face -- and still a blow slipped through once, twice, hammering indignation into the Golden King’s visage.

“I have wrestled the Weapon of the Gods into submission!” Gilgamesh reminded him, landing a fierce uppercut into Achilles’ stomach.

A warm glow alight on them again, and Achilles slammed his forehead down into Gilgamesh’s nose before bounding backward as a dozen weapons crossed through the air he once occupied. 

“I commend you,” Gilgamesh said as he rose. “Rejoice, Achilles, and pray to your gods on Mount Olympos -- for you have earned my fullest attention.”

“Then you might just have a chance.” Achilles grinned like a man possessed, summoning his spear back to his hand in a streak of green. 

No more words. Golden portals filled the arena on all sides, surrounding both heroes and washing the sands in rippling light. 

In less than the beat of a heart Achilles had pulled his shield from his back and took to his heels, throwing himself between walls of flying weapons. He swept low beneath a great halberd, then launched himself over a spinning axe by the haft of his spear, spinning in the air and at once twisting past a sword, deflecting a spear with his shield, and throwing his own, which traced an electric scar through the arena, carving a path of devastation through the hail of Noble Phantasms, intercepting dozens even as they left Gilgamesh’s Gates. Achilles launched himself forward again, always forward, never slowing.

The great Achilles was known for his invincibility, but that was born of godliness. Someone with divinity to rival his own hardly needed to heed it. Gilgamesh’s attacks, posed by a hero born of a demigod and a goddess, would pierce him just as handily as they would anyone else. But Achilles had faced demigods and nymphs and defied fate itself, and still the word of his imperviousness remained untarnished until his death. In fact, the earliest recordings of his feats were not even aware of his unearthly protection. For Achilles’ greatest strength was not his resilience, but his overwhelming speed, vaunted as the greatest of all heroes, for all time.

With a lunge, he crossed from one end of the colosseum to the other in a streak of light, and crossed again before the eye could realize he had turned in the first place. But Gilgamesh was ready this time, and able to respond -- if only just. A volley of swords cut across Achilles’ path just before Gilgamesh, forcing the Greek hero to divert around and deflect several weapons with his spear. In that time the King of Heroes summoned his axe to hand and was able to meet Achilles’ spear when it came for him again. 

The man truly moved with speed to outpace the gods themselves. Even Gilgamesh, blessed with the clairvoyant sight of Sha Naqba Imuru, had underestimated it. He was forced to admit the possibility Achilles could even have killed him in that first blow, so great was his speed, but his hunger for challenge demanded otherwise. It was a feeling Gilgamesh knew well. 

Achilles’ body was a blur, crackling with ambient mana as he thrust with his spear, a dozen times in the span of a second. Each was preceded by a feint, each one deadly to anyone of lesser skill. Gilgamesh met each with a different blade, all summoned at once, and still two of the blows moved faster than the summoning, and drew blood from the King as if his armor were no more than illusion. 

He could see the weakness on the hero’s ankle plainly, a stretch of clean mortality on a body scorched by godliness, but he could not strike fast enough to hit it. Achilles danced around or barrelled through every attempt. Never had Gilgamesh been forced to rely so completely on his clairvoyance. This hero _was_ worthy of this battle. The thought filled him with the thing most precious to him -- excitement.

He laughed joyously as he threw himself backward, rising into the air and unleashing another torrent of weapons.

“You are a truly legendary warrior, son of Peleus,” Gilgamesh called. “So I will face you, rightly, not as a warrior, but as the great King!”

Achilles’ grin vanished into a scowl. “Too bad. I respect you as a fellow warrior, but kings...” Then the fangs crept back into his expression, wide and sharp, the joys and furies of battle in his eyes. “I’ll show you how a true hero compares to self-righteous kings!”

“Is it self-righteousness when the heavens and the earth alike bend beneath your might?” 

Within a flurry of weapons, the hero of the Trojan War darted to and fro. Chains, shining like the sun and reaching toward him as if alive, trailed behind him, always just too slow. He sidestepped a spear, then, before it could dissipate, kicked off from it, launching himself like a missile at his opponent. The King of Heroes parried at the last second, and Achilles’ momentum carried him onward to the ceiling of the arena, where he pushed off again. 

Dozens of Gates swiveled to face him and began their assault, pouring forth weapons of destruction from the dawn of time. Neither hero was armored anymore, each prioritizing energy and speed, sweating from their encounters, leaving Achilles with few options in the air. Gilgamesh’s window of opportunity was only an instant. Achilles’ best hope for defense was--

His spear hurtled through the air, blowing aside Gilgamesh’s attacks, but passing through empty air on the other side. The King of Kings had surmised correctly, dropping back down to the sands and turning to face the Greek hero as he continued his path overhead like a falling star.

But he was not defenseless. As Gilgamesh’s unceasing assault began anew from the opposite direction, Achilles spun--

“ _Akhilleus Kosmos!_ ”

The sight was grand; it was as if the entirety of the Greek world was laid out between the two heroes in shades of phantasmal emerald; as if the world itself was protecting Achilles. And indeed, it was. But Gilgamesh, uniquely, had an answer for such a defense, and even as Achilles touched the ground, safe behind his shield, the King of Heroes was drawing forth his mighty Ea.

“Die gloriously,” he wished.

Without Sha Naqba Imuru guiding him, Achilles’ speed may have been too much. But with it less restrained than usual, the battle simply went his way, as was the nature of things. They were across the arena from each other, and although Achilles could cross that distance in less time than it took the brain to process it, and indeed he was already pushing off… Gilgamesh had already won.

“ _Ea!_ ”

Spiraling red and the winds of fate crashed into the Greek world. The meeting was as if one was witnessing the death of the universe, and in a way that was true. And despite Achilles’ howl of effort… he was swallowed by the sword of rupture. 

Gilgamesh allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, in such a worthy opponent as well as in victory itself.

“ _King of Heroes!_ ”

His reverie shattered. Gilgamesh saw it in his mind’s eye. Achilles, broken and bloodied, his ankle burned by Ea and his abilities crippled by it, nonetheless hurtling forward on sheer momentum, a simple shortsword in hand -- a simple shortsword thrust into the heart of the King of Heroes. He saw it, but he could not act in time to stop it.

Achilles heaved, each breath bringing fresh pain, but his smile returned. Throwing and overloading his shield hadn't bought him as much reprieve from Ea as he'd hoped, but it was enough for his stubborn body. Every beat of his heart was a new surge of sickening pain, but he felt _alive._

“You…” Gilgamesh murmured, but found it hard to speak with a Greek xiphos piercing his ribcage. 

“Thank you, Gilgamesh... You are a mighty hero, indeed. Even for a stubborn king. To fight alongside you as an ally... will be an honor.”

Up in the control room, the real Gilgamesh smiled faintly as he looked on.

“That was close!” Da Vinci bounced excitedly. “And I think several members of Chaldea just made -- and lost -- quite a bit of money. Oh, I should alert Nightingale. That Rider will be sorry this time...”

“That man,” Salter observed, “Is fast.”

“What are you, stupid?” Jalter snapped. “Besides, he didn’t win because he was _fast,_ he won because he was _clever._ Gil thought he’d outsmarted him, and he was wrong. As usual.”

“As usual,” Salter agreed. “I believe I’ve just won some money. Why don’t you go fetch more snacks from Emiya?”

“I’m not your servant.”

“You are a peasant. All peasants are servants to the king.”

“Knock it off with that shit! And get your own damn snacks.”

“I… cannot.”

“What was that?”

“Emiya has ‘cut me off.’”

“ _Pfft--!_ ” Jalter doubled forward into a fit of uncontrolled laughter as Salter glowered in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the last chapter before something akin to plot sets in for the finale. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy what's next!


	5. Mirror Mirror (Gilgamesh v Gilgamesh)

"I see. So that is how this plays out…"

"Gilgamesh?"

The Caster dismissed his tablet suddenly and threw his hand out, beckoning. "Has anyone come forward to be the next in the arena?" he demanded.

"Um…" Da Vinci consulted her own datapad. "It looks like--"

"Inform them they must wait! There is a new challenger who must face the King of Heroes immediately!"

"Oh? Who would that be?"

His red eyes gleamed beneath his golden bangs. "Ourself, of course."

"Here."

Salter jerked. "Emiya!?"

"Has the King of Knights grown so complacent that even I can take her by surprise? Take the bentou."

Japanese cooking was meticulous and strove for balance and refinement; not attributes to make it a favorite of the impatient and blunt Alter, unlike her other self. When she opened it, however, she saw Emiya had attempted to reach an impasse; there was simply a field of hot rice topped with fried chicken cutlets and doused in a rich sauce, and a pile of Japanese pickles on the side.

"... I will accept this paltry tribute, this time," Salter said, before her stomach could speak up for her, and dug in.

"You, too," Emiya said, passing a second box to Jalter with a wink, one thanking her for telling him Salter was, inevitably, hungry again. He acted brusque, but he was never as consternated in combat as he was when he thought one of the others in Chaldea was less than happy. And he had a particular soft spot for the Artorias.

"I didn't ask for that," she said, nonetheless blushing slightly. It was too easy when they were so pale. 

Emiya sat in a third seat near them with his own meal, cold noodles in some kind of broth. 

“So why aren’t you out there?” the Avenger barked.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“Bite me. You’ve talked about how you’re his _natural enemy_ before, so what’s the deal?”

“I _could_ prove that my fakes can surpass the King of Heroes,” Emiya said. “But I don’t need to.”

“Warriors should display their strength for all to see,” Salter said after gulping down a good chunk of her food. “You should silence anyone who doubts you.”

“I don’t care about them. My battles have always been internal. The approvals or endictments of others have never held any sway over me. My only strength is my mind; my only enemy is my mind. _I_ know I’m more than a match for that man, and that’s enough.”

Jalter peered at him. “You’re so full of shit." 

Emiya noted the way her mouth twisted at his words, nonetheless.

“Do you think that fox vixen could do it?” she changed the subject.

“Suzuka?” Emiya rubbed idly at his chin. 

“She’s got a similar Noble Phantasm, too.”

“Perhaps. But the number of swords she summons and the degree to which she can control them are limited, unless… well, suffice to say I believe she could do it, but she wouldn’t want to try as long as she could help it. Certainly not for games like this.”

“I’m getting impatient,” Salter interrupted.

“Surprise surprise,” Jalter smirked.

“Where is the next contestant?” 

“Rejoice, Chaldeans!” Gilgamesh’s voice echoed across the stands. “My patience has worn thin, so you are about to witness the true extent of the power of the King of Heroes!”

“Oh?” an identical voice jeered. “I see… a Caster-class incarnation of myself. Indeed... even if your physical parameters are lowered somewhat, there is surely no one who could present me with greater challenge.”

Gilgamesh was supposed to oversee the matches, not partake in them -- to anyone’s knowledge. Watching the two Kings of Heroes observe each other coolly from across the sands brought a hush of anticipation over the crowds.

Salter smiled cruelly. “Now, _this_ will be a fight worth watching.”

A hundred Gates of Babylon from all sides opened simultaneously, explosions filling the arena as ancient weapons shattered against magical beams sent by the highest quality of staves. The battle between two great heroes, each the owner of limitless weapons and possessing something approaching perfect omniscience, for a once-in-a-lifetime battle fully unleashed, was indescribable. The destruction was massive, and beautiful.

“It is to your credit you can still match me,” the Archer called out through the smoke and debris, “Even having abandoned your treasures.”

“You flatter yourself.” Caster blocked another barrage of priceless weapons to his rear with a wave of his gauntleted hand.

“What else have you lost, I wonder?” Archer sneered.

In unison with another volley from the Gates of Babylon, the Chains of Heaven reached out toward Caster from all sides; a cage, from which the Wedge of Heaven himself would be completely unable to escape.

“Not my wits,” he remarked. In the span of a breath, dozens more Gates surrounded Gilgamesh’s body, leading not to his treasury, but to a matched set of Gates around the other King.  
Archer dismissed his redirected Chains of Enkidu a moment before they reached him, never losing his demeanor. 

“You dare try to turn my own treasures against me?” He scoffed. “Kuh. Kuhahaha! As expected of myself! My wisdom and tenacity remain unmatched. Shall we settle this on the sands, then, as we did with Enkidu?”

“I am far from fool enough to accept such an invitation,” Caster dismissed, sending plumes of fire toward his mirror. “You would no doubt overpower me in a test of mere strength. But you neglect your greatest strength. In a measured battle of Kings such as this, I have the advantage.”

“Is that so?” The Archer’s gaze went cold. “It seems age has dulled my mind after all, as well as my body. I am blessed, then, to be preserved as I am, before I can fade into you. You are an embarrassment to the great legacy of humanity’s oldest and greatest King. Begone from my sight!”

The Gates of Babylon shined ever brighter, unleashing Noble Phantasm upon Noble Phantasm at the Caster. Some were deflected by magical bolts, others caught and redirected back mid-air by webs of runes, and the odd one was batted aside personally by the King’s battleaxe. A thousand blades clashed with a thousand wards and a thousand lasers were deflected by a thousand shields. But in a battle of Noble Phantasms released in an unending fury against magics and staves, the differences showed over time: Caster was losing.  
It took several layers of wards to match a Noble Phantasm, and specific wands and spells had to be invoked to counter the unique attributes of each weapon. The Chains of Heaven interspersed throughout it all had to be dealt with as well, and even as his capacity was beyond the imagination of modern mages, Caster’s mana was depleted with every clash; something the Archer, simply throwing his treasures, barely needed to worry about.

“Is this truly where my epic leads?” Archer demanded. “Look at you, pale shade! You have discarded your own treasury, the likes of which this world could never match again! You have been stripped of your greatest weapon and ally, Enkidu! And for what? In exchange for a few cheap tricks…” Archer muttered with disgust.

“ _You_ lost Enkidu!” Caster’s voice tore through the violence. “And wallowing in fear and arrogance, you abandoned your people in a vain search for immortality! You no longer wished to shelter humanity from the gods, you wished to live as one of them! I exhausted my life rebuilding what you allowed to crumble!”

“I am King of all Kings!” Archer shouted, redoubling his Gates. Two sets of red eyes burned fiercely in defiance of one another. “My decisions are the wisest of all, and shape the future of Mesopotamia into new prosperity!”

“You are blind and a fool,” Caster spat. “Furthermore, you are wrong -- I would never abandon my many treasures. Now, witness how the King protects his great city of Uruk!”

With a wave of his hand, a great wall rose behind him, and Archer’s Noble Phantasms began crashing into an invisible barrier, a defense far greater than those that Caster was capable of, even though he had ceased his own summonings.

“The true power of a King lies with his people, his contributions to them!” Caster called out, “Now, loose the volleys! _Melammu Dingir!_ ”

Atop the wall of Uruk constructed by the Caster King, a line of sparks ran across its length, each one a great magical cannon firing one of the Noble Phantasms of Gilgamesh’s grand treasury. As the great volley rose into the sky, Archer could see in his mind’s eye as they crashed down upon him -- whatever defenses he could raise, they would not be enough. The sheer volume of coordinated fire was one thing, but entirely another was what he saw as his treasures hit his shields -- the priceless relics overloading and detonating, Broken Phantasms sacrificed to blow his defenses away and consume him.

There was only one thing Archer could do -- one weapon both Kings had, unspoken, decided not to draw. A turning key in his hand became a spiral sword. The sands in the arena lifted and whipped around its circumference wildly as red wind filled the air.

“ _Ea!_ ” Archer called out, unleashing the power of the Sword of Rupture in front of him, blowing away the deluge of Melammu Dingir and racing forward to destroy the other him--

“Ea!” the other echoed, a mirrored spiral sword in his own hand unleashing a matching wave of destruction. His oldest friend, and his second-most sure.

In the middle of the arena, two masses of energy, enough to create or destroy worlds, collided and raged against each other.

And as the Archer raced to formulate a strategy to overcome this new situation, the Caster’s plan was already moving ahead. Beneath the King’s gold-plated soles a great Gate of Babylon opened, throwing deadly golden light upon his figure, and he had not the reflexes to save himself as a perimeter of staves threw golden lightning, trapping him in a deadly cage.

The red whirlwind of death in the center of the arena dissipated as the Archer’s screams of pain echoed, his golden armor burning away before he, too, was reduced to pseudo-spiritrons glowing gently in the remnants of a breeze.

Cheers echoed through the arena, muted and distant in the wake of the clashing twin Swords of Rupture. Caster dismissed his tablet and his sword, eyes wandering vacantly over the opposite end of the arena where there had previously stood his greatest enemy -- himself. His arrogance, his frivolity, and his complete lack of comprehension. His wasted youth. 

He despised it. And unlike in this symbolic battle, it would never, ever be truly gone from Gilgamesh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You had to see this coming, right?


	6. The Power of... Friendship? (the Alter girls)

“Sooo, did you get whatever that was out of your system?” Da Vinci chimed. Her voice was chipper, but it would be a mistake to think it was mocking. She was simply a naturally curious creature; it fueled her intellect, and vice versa, it in itself pleased her to no end, and it was the primary trait that made her such an impressive human in Gilgamesh’s eyes -- when she had been human, he supposed. She was, in fact, burning with curiosity to know just what, precisely, had motivated him to intrude on his own proposed game, and take on a battle against his younger self which, even by his own reckoning, he was likely to lose. But, although her curiosity overpowered a great many things, she was far too smart not to know when questioning would meet a wall of hardened clay.

“Indeed,” he said, still tired from his match. “Let the games continue. Has anyone come forward for the next match?”

“Apparently so,” Da Vinci said. In the sands below them, as the mirage of the Golden King coalesced again, a figure of black strode toward him, with a banner of white gently lapping the wind behind her.

“Look at you,” the King of Heroes murmured, looking the altered Saint up and down. “Such rage, and raw power, yet... Tell me, girl -- do you even know who you are?”

Jalter’s face was twisted and cruel, the grin of an evil of the world made manifest. She pointed with her sword.

“I know I’m about to tear you apart,” she said, and her eyes promised to swallow him whole.

“Hmm,” he hummed. “Perhaps you will provide a moment of sport after all.”

The wall of light rose against his back, casting him into shadow. Innumerable Noble Phantasms took aim at the dragon witch, and she spun her banner in her hand, baring her fangs.

Gilgamesh unleashed his might in a volley, fully aware of her defensive capabilities. Her flag would absorb his attacks, just as her holy counterpart’s would, but he needed only goad her, stoke her madness, until she made a mistake he could punish her for. 

While his clairvoyance allowed him accurate measures of his foes, it did not give exact details, or prevent underestimation. He knew she was strong, but did not realize the fundamental difference in the altered Holy Maiden’s battle standard. 

He watched his treasures crash upon the barrier, and watched her grin grow sharper.

“Are you ready?” she asked. “ _La Grondement de la Haine!_ ”

Burning flames coursed outward, casting the arena from eerie gold to raging red as all the energy from his treasures was redirected and amplified. Gilgamesh floated upward to escape the worst of the heat, but the spikes... they were not aimed, physical attacks, but a conceptual weapon, the fate of impalation entrenched in Jeanne d’Arc’s psyche, repurposed as the ultimate counterattack. Even with perfect clairvoyance, dodging was impossible, and Gilgamesh’s great armor was pierced by his own power multiplied by Jalter’s howl of anger. 

The match was over, and Jalter swaggered back to the stands, flopping into her seat with an air of immense satisfaction.

“Told you,” she smirked mercilessly.

Emiya was shocked and impressed, but Salter -- the blackened King of Knights simply furrowed her brow and looked out upon the sands.

“Umu!” the shout was so enthusiastic, and so near, that Gilgamesh nearly jumped. Nero leaned over the railing, far enough to lift her feet from the ground behind her. “The King of Knights takes to the field, inheritor of Britain! Even altered, her figure and her blade are most beautiful, are they not?”

Despite himself, Gilgamesh laughed. Aside from considering her pretty, she seemed completely oblivious to their striking resemblance. Nor would she ever admit that, without the assistance of her coliseum, that “little” inheritor of Britain would easily bring the Imperator of Rome to her knees. Even if she knew it in her mind, it wouldn’t stop her trying. 

All things Gilgamesh found he liked in her. He ruffled her hair in his enjoyment, and she bristled for a moment before deciding to enjoy the attention -- the correct reaction. Enkidu looked on with a faint smile from their seat, possibly not knowing Gilgamesh could see. 

“Let us see how her cursed sword endures,” the King mused.

The array of Artorias came with an array of quirks. The Saber from this world’s correct version of history, while a ruthless tactician, was a careful combatant herself, with a heavy air of sorrow about her, restraining her Noble Phantasm even when she was assured their NeroFest coliseum would protect the audience. The male version, who seemed to avoid most people for reasons possibly only Gilgamesh and Merlin understood, nevertheless met his foes with a cheerful breeziness completely opposite her, as if the years of kingship had piled duty upon duty onto his plate yet could not tarnish his young boy’s optimistic heart. The Lancer, more emotionally mature and sure of herself, used her Noble Phantasms freely, albeit in precisely controlled bursts, and combat seemed to spark no emotions in her at all; she lapsed into a zen state, as so many Japanese heroes would put it.

Their Alter counterpart wielded her power with cold focus and reckless abandon, as if testing Da Vinci’s claims about their arena’s protective measures. Every good King had a man, a trusty weapon the King could trust to crush his opponents completely. For Salter, like for Gilgamesh, the King was his own weapon.

Her casual sweater and shorts seemed to disappear as a black dress coalesced from light around her form. A moment later, her silhouette seemed to ripple, and heavy armor plates sprang into existence. She raised her hand, and a black spot appeared like a black hole before it wavered, collapsed in on itself and her sword snapped into being in her palm.

The Gilgamesh down on the sands seemed to enjoy crossing blades with her as much as the one in the command room enjoyed watching. He dueled her with Ea, unleashing gusts to match the beams of black energy, and using the Gate of Babylon only sparingly to throw Salter off-balance. Still, she pushed him. Her face was still, like a doll’s but for her eyes which burned liquid gold. The King of Heroes twisted and summoned another torrent of other blades, crossing them in front of him to absorb the King of Knights’ blow as she slammed Excalibur down overhead, its silhouette crackling and distorted as excess mana bled from it. 

“Do you think so little of me, Gilgamesh?” she asked as she strode toward him, Excalibur still dripping black in one hand by her side.

“The opposite, King of Knights!” Gilgamesh bellowed. “I do you great honor by wielding Ea against you. I falter to recall a foe so worthy as you to meet my full power.”

“Then show me the true power of the King of Heroes,” Salter bade, dropping into stance and funneling more spitting, burning mana into her blade. 

He considered. “Very well, Saber. I ask only that you try to hold out as long as you can, and die beautifully for me.”

He stepped back. Snapped his fingers. It was a sight Salter was well-acquainted with over the course of NeroFest -- the golden light, the killing intent, the overwhelming number of Noble Phantasms at the Archer’s disposal.

Owing to her dragon’s heart, King Arthur Pendragon was, with only one solid exception, the finest fighter among her own knights; she did not exceed many of them in skill, as many had practiced the sword far longer than she and under far more famous tutors, but within her breast beat one of the world’s most potent mana reactors, flooding her veins with raw energy. The King, when she took the field, was truly a dragon sent to trample the enemies of Britain.

The scent of burning rubber began to fill the air as her sword snapped to and fro, parrying blade after blade as they rained down upon her, each swing of her weapon knocking aside three of his as the shockwaves shook the arena. But as she herself had proven in life, even a dragon could be brought low by overwhelming firepower.

_But not I._

“Turn back the tide,” she commanded. “Hammer of the King -- _Excalibur Morgan! _”__

__When she swung, it was pure destruction that flowed from the tip of her blade, a wave of death rolling out across the sands, one which disintegrated numerous treasures of the King of Heroes -- and would have swallowed him whole as well, had it not been so predictable._ _

__The destruction coursing out from the knight flared up and intensified, engulfing more of Gilgamesh’s armory even as he summoned them, but he fought in a three-dimensional battleground. Her armor protected her, but became criss-crossed with cuts, furrows and trenches as blow after blow glanced her from all angles._ _

__“Survive this, King of Knights!” Gilgamesh cried -- an order, not a challenge. “I’m not yet done with you!”_ _

__Gold lit her black form, and chains wrapped around her limbs. Excalibur’s terrible fire ended, and another volley of weapons readied themselves in the air directly above her head._ _

__Artoria Pendragon had always had a weakness for competition; and though she could handle most, she refused to acknowledge that there were some contests she was simply ill-suited for, through no fault of her own._ _

__Even as he wanted to chastise her, he couldn’t help but think it was another thing he liked about her._ _

__“Saber!”_ _

__And a rain of swords severed her chains, intercepted every treasure from the golden gates, then lanced toward the King of Heroes._ _

__“You _dare_ interrupt us, you mongrel!?” he spat. _ _

__“A mere faker like me?” Emiya asked innocently, standing in red beside Salter's black. “Surely I couldn’t interrupt someone like _you_.”_ _

__“What are you doing?” Salter demanded._ _

__“Leave us to our business, mongrel.”_ _

__"Her business is mine," Emiya said, as if it were obvious and inconsequential. He turned to her. "If I recall, not so long ago in this world or an adjacent one, I swore fealty to you. If you'll allow it, then as ever, I am your sword and your shield. And I would prefer not to see my King struggling because she isn't allowed access to her full armory."_ _

__This last remark he directed back to the King of Heroes with a sideways slide of his eyes, who in turn inclined his head and snarled. "Very well. I suppose a King is naturally entitled to a loyal retainer, even one such as you. And not as if it will change the outcome."_ _

__Emiya didn't respond, still watching the Saber. She studied his face, almost quizzical -- always so familiar, yet so vague. She did remember, as if from a dream, his oath to her in the flaming city where they had both been blackened in the waters of the Grail. Ready, at a moment's notice, to die for her and -- more importantly -- to kill for her. Perhaps still. And -- something beyond that, not from her but from that other her._ _

__He was cold and calculated, like her, but what she always thought of when it came to him was that he was strangely warm. Something in her saint graph felt cracked. She saw a boy. A man. A hill of swords. A golden glow and the scent of apples and a field of flames._ _

__"You swore to me," she acknowledged. "Then assist me as I cut down this fool."_ _

__"Understood." A tilt of the head. A hint of a smile. And as she hefted Excalibur, around them a wall of swords appeared, materializing from the ground up as if from blueprints._ _

__"How insulting," Gilgamesh muttered, and loosed hell._ _

__She bound forward, leaving her armor behind, paying no care to Gilgamesh’s armory. She knew she no longer had need of either. The Archer of wrought-iron was at her back, her strange protector; the scabbard to her sword, always there even if unseen. Every weapon that appeared to impede her, an exact duplicate of the weapon sparked into existence and struck down the original._ _

__In two great strides, she struck. “Treasures are plundered, razed and lost to time -- prove to me your skill with a blade, Gilgamesh, your true worth as a hero!”_ _

__He reacted quickly, blocking with the blunt length of Ea, but his face betrayed him; he was flustered, his every attack confounded by the Hunter of the Red Plains who now watched over the King of Knights._ _

__The Golden King regained composure admirably, twisting back, surprisingly flexible, to swing around from a new angle, and the knight met his blade with hers. The air rang with the song of steel._ _

__“ _Kick his ass!_ ” Jalter’s voice cut through the din, and cheers followed hers._ _

__Excalibur blazed anew with black flame, carving crimson afterimages into the air as she bore down on her opponent. He was on his back foot, deprived of his greatest strength; a Lord, in every sense of the word, naturally outclassed by the conquering dragon. If he was the Lynchpin of Heaven, she was the Anchor of the World, and despite all the power of the gods they had never faced the hardships humanity had overcome. It was why Gilgamesh loved them, why he had always stood apart from them, and why he would lose today._ _

__Axes and swords thrust at her from the sides; less aimed blows than desperate defenses that he hoped might also harm or alarm her. No sooner did they block her blows than they were shattered or knocked aside by fakes. What escaped Emiya’s keen eyes could not subvert his profound depth of experience. It was only sheer power that could subdue the King in black._ _

__And eventually, he answered. Wind whipped from Ea, enough to pick up the King of Knights and toss her away._ _

__“You have earned this, Artoria!” he yelled. “I shall show you the beginning and the end!”_ _

__Her window was closed. Salter knew that in that moment, she had lost, even with the second wind granted to her. Excalibur could match Ea, but only at full power, and this was ultimately still a training match. She could not remove even half of the thirteen seals on her blade. Still, she would not lose without a fight._ _

__“ _Ex--!_ ”_ _

__“Saber! Together! _Rho--!_ ”_ _

__Emiya was stronger and faster than any of his observed statistics would indicate; the result of strange fate, a body like a weapon to be used and discarded when necessary, and a soul that was a raging forge. He was at her side when Ea came down, one hand held forward as if to stop the tide himself. A great flower bloomed in front of them, seven layers of seven violet petals. When the tides of chaos unleashed from Ea washed against it, the foundation cracked in a second, and the layers began to vanish rapidly, swallowed up by the winds. A second was all they needed._ _

__“Now, Saber!” Emiya gritted out, and roared with effort, throwing both hands forward. As Rho Aias flashed blinding bright and burst--_ _

__“ _\--calibur! _”___ _

____The sands flattened as air burst out from her swing, and crackling energy loosed from the point of her blade, cutting through Ea’s stymied winds and pushing through toward the King of Heroes._ _ _ _

____“Impossible!” he cursed, and even as he did so Salter mustered all her strength. Her armor enclosed her body. Her visor slid into place over her eyes. Mana flooded her limbs. And he shot forward into the canyon they’d carved with tooth and claw, straight to her foe._ _ _ _

____Ea’s power was far from gone. It unraveled the cloth of her dress, peeled away her armor, and licked at her pale skin down to the bone. But it was no longer enough. Excalibur buried itself to the hilt in Gilgamesh’s chest, his magical armor like paper to her sword._ _ _ _

____He coughed blood, and Salter winced in disgust as it flecked her cheek. “This is…!”_ _ _ _

____“Silence!” she snapped. Excalibur ignited into crackling blackness, cleaved its way out of Gilgamesh’s body by way of his right shoulder, and slashed back through his neck in the same instant. And he scattered into quasi-spiritron particles, leaving the King of Knights standing on the field alone, in tatters but still standing tall._ _ _ _

____Emiya remained where he had sunk to his knees, possibly looking worse than she did; hair loose and streaked with black and red, his mantle all but gone from his shoulders. Yet a phantasmal smile lingered on his sleepy features._ _ _ _

____“Thank you,” she said quietly as she passed. He did not respond. There was nothing to be thankful for. For him it was as natural as breathing, even in darkness and in fire._ _ _ _

____When she reached Jalter again, she was whooping along with the crowd. “Hey, you didn’t do so bad for a lost little--”_ _ _ _

____Salter cut her off by taking a fistful of her hair and pulling her to her parched lips._ _ _ _

____“Hey! Wuh--! We--! W-we talked about--!” Jalter stammered, pale face going bright pink._ _ _ _

____There was some perfect jab she could make about Emiya perhaps being more receptive, but Salter was exhausted, and couldn’t put the words together, much less keep up with what her girlfriend was still babbling. She started to sag against the Avenger, and Jalter’s grip tightened instinctively._ _ _ _

____“Fine,” she murmured, “I guess just a little PDA every once in a while might be… Okay, this is an exception, alright?” She was still blushing, but Salter was too tired to appreciate it or even poke fun at it, and simply nuzzled her head into the familiar crook of her neck as the Avenger effortlessly lifted her from the grounds of the arena and carried her away._ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we finally -- just barely -- earn all those relationship tags. Although I feel sorry for anyone who came here looking for legitimate technical Shirou/Saber. Maybe I'll do something very domestic in that area in time, but for now -- goth lesbians. Prompt fulfilled. You're welcome.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, folks! I'll update this thing whenever we get those extra chapters together.


End file.
